


shake to the beat (with a barrel down your throat)

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Sick Character, Srar era, it's not cancer don't worry, overprotective and smug band members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He can’t get sick. He just can’t. The band just got back together two months ago, and they’ve got gigs all next month, as well as a summer tour lined up. If something happens with Patrick’s voice now, he’ll never forgive himself. He’d jeopardized the band once, and he refuses to do it again.</em><br/> <br/><em>God. He’s overreacting, isn’t he? Stupid anxiety. A little bug isn’t gonna destroy the band. He just needs some rest, and he’ll be better in a day or two.</em></p><p> <em>He has to be.</em></p><p>###</p><p>What starts out as a seemingly harmless tickle in the back of Patrick's throat turns out to be something far more serious than he'd anticipated. But Pete's here, right by his side again after three years of estrangement, and he's not about to let Patrick jump to depressing conclusions. One thing is certain, though: Fall Out Boy is back, and there might be a few changes in store for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shake to the beat (with a barrel down your throat)

**Author's Note:**

> hello again! this is just a little something i've been writing off-and-on for a few weeks and i finally got it in publishing condition. i hope you like it <3333 enjoy!
> 
> dedicated to my faithful Official Reviewer, who's been going through lots of shit lately but has come out just fine and will continue to come out just fine.

At first it’s just a tickle. Like there’s a single grain of sand lodged at the very back of his throat, rubbing against his vocal cords every time he speaks. A couple quick coughs are enough to get rid of it at first, so Patrick doesn’t think much of it. He has allergies and it’s the middle of April—he was bound to get symptoms like this sooner or later. So he pops a pill and downs a bottle of Fiji water, hoping that will stave it off for awhile.

His voice is fine during their show that night, so he figures his treatment worked. He repeats it before he goes to bed, topping it off with a mug of chamomile tea just to be safe.

It’s back again in the morning, only now it feels more like a small handful of sand. Patrick sits up in his bunk at six a.m.—several hours earlier than he typically awakens—and presses a fist to his chest as he coughs for a solid ten seconds. _Fuck._ There’s actual pain in his throat now, and it’s hard for him to swallow as he tries to re-regulate his breathing. Wheezing lightly, he reaches to the foot of his tiny bunk and grabs his backpack, pilfering around in the outside pocket until he finds his inhaler.

As if summoned, Pete’s disheveled head appears upside-down from the bunk above Patrick’s and he blinks blearily. “Gettin’ sick?” he asks in a sleep-rough voice.

Patrick inhales a few puffs of the medicine, sighing as it soothes his inflamed throat a bit. He shakes his head stubbornly as he packs the inhaler away again. “No, ‘s just allergies.”

“You’re not sniffly, though,” Pete points out after a few seconds of thought. “Shouldn’t you be all sneezy an’ leaking everywhere?”

That’s…actually a good point. Patrick’s sinuses aren’t blocked at all; it’s just his damn throat that’s giving him trouble. Still, he shakes his head in denial again and zips his backpack shut. “I don’t always get a runny nose. Go back to sleep, Pete. Sorry I woke you.”

“’S fine. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Pete yawns, and Patrick’s heart melts a little. “See ya in a few hours.”

Patrick watches Pete disappear back up to his own bunk with a gentle smile on his face. It slips away after a few seconds as he lays back down on his pillow, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. The inhaler had helped, but there’s still a dull throb in his throat, beating in time with his heart. It gets worse when he swallows, and Patrick remembers his mother telling him when he was a kid that that’s never good.

He can’t get sick. He just _can’t_. The band just got back together two months ago, and they’ve got gigs all this month and a summer tour lined up. If something happens with Patrick’s voice now, he’ll never forgive himself. He’d jeopardized the band once, and he refuses to do it again.

God. He’s overreacting, isn’t he? Stupid anxiety. A little bug isn’t gonna destroy the band.

Patrick slips back into sleep cautiously optimistic, lying on his back to ease his breathing. He just needs some rest, and he’ll be better in a day or two.

He has to be.

 

* * *

 

Two days later and they’re playing a short TV spot for some local news station in Wisconsin. They only play three songs, but when they’re done, Patrick feels like he’s been singing for five hours straight. He’d had to _force_ notes that he usually hits with ease out of his throat, and he’d been breathless after about two minutes, which hasn’t happened to him in years. On top of all this, a lovely new pain has developed in his left ear, leaving him wincing every time he opens his mouth too wide.

“Just allergies” is looking less and less like a plausible diagnosis.

As soon as the last note is played, Patrick steps away from his mic and rushes backstage in search of water, holding in his wheezes until he’s out of the band’s earshot. His whole body feels like it’s overheating, and the furnace is lodged behind his Adam’s apple, burning up everything it touches.

When Patrick’s slumped on the couch in the greenroom five minutes later, breathing shallowly and taking small sips from a water bottle (because that’s what hurts the least), Pete, Joe, and Andy arrive. Pete’s the first one through the door and he immediately notices something isn’t right; he hurries to Patrick’s side on the couch, sits down next to him and studies his face with a furrowed brow and worried eyes. “’Trick, what’s wrong?” he asks softly.

Patrick shakes his head helplessly, biting his lip. “I…I don’t know,” he admits, stomach sinking when he hears his own ragged voice. He casts a worried glance around the room at his bandmates, afraid he’ll find anger in their expressions. What he sees instead is care and concern, and he feels a little better. “Thought it was allergies at first, but it— _agh_ —”

A fit of painful coughing interrupts him, and he ends up doubled over on the couch with his forearm against his mouth and Pete’s large, warm hand rubbing firm circles on his back. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes as he squeezes them shut from both exertion and pain—it feels like someone’s jamming a red-hot iron rod down his throat, searing his vocal cords and making it nearly impossible to speak or breathe properly. God, it hurts; when will it _stop_ —?

Finally, after what feels like half an hour, Patrick’s hacking peters out and leaves him panting. Joe is suddenly kneeling in front of him with his backpack in his hands, and Pete digs the inhaler out of it and holds it up to Patrick’s lips. Patrick grimaces and swallows painfully before tugging the inhaler to his mouth and taking a few deep, medicated breaths. The medicine opens up his airways a little, but Patrick still feels that ache in his larynx that makes him want to cry with frustration.

When he sits up, clearing his throat roughly, the questions start.

“How long have you felt like this?”

“Did you try, like, tea and saltwater and shit?”

“Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Why the _fuck_ did you think it was a good idea for you to sing today? You could’ve hurt yourself—”

“You probably _did_ hurt yourself—”

“Guys, please!” Patrick exclaims with as much force as his ravaged throat can manage. His bandmates go quiet. “Thank you,” he sighs and leans back on the couch, dropping his head back against the cushions to stare up at the ceiling. He ignores the throbbing pain in his ear and closes his eyes. It feels good—he hadn’t noticed how tired he was until now.

“My throat’s been bugging me for…about four days now,” the singer says quietly once the burn has eased a little. “I’ve tried allergy pills, _gallons_ of tea with honey, and plenty of saltwater gargles, but I just—it won’t go away. My inhaler kinda helps, but only for a few minutes.” He peels his eyes open and turns his head to look up at Pete’s “concerned dad” face. “It _hurts,”_ he rasps pathetically, finally admitting his weakness.

Pete bites his lip and reaches up to brush some sweaty hair off Patrick’s forehead. His hand lingers on Patrick’s skin for a few seconds, and the worried crease between his eyebrows deepens. “Fuck, you’re burning up,” he murmurs, pressing a blessedly cool palm against Patrick’s cheek. The younger man sighs and closes his eyes again, leaning into the touch. “Did you buy any cold medicine?”

“No, just some cherry lozenges,” Patrick replies, and his voice sounds like gravel against sandpaper. He thinks he tastes blood, but that’s probably his imagination. “Those didn’t help either.”

There’s a prolonged silence, but Patrick suddenly can’t work up the strength to open his eyes and investigate the cause. He’s beyond caring, though—all he wants right now is to fall asleep. Pete can carry him to the bus, right? The bassist works out so much now; no doubt he’s strong enough to lift Patrick. His inked arms are more toned than they’ve ever been, and his chest and abs are sculpted and tan and…

…Shit. Patrick’s fever must be higher than he’d thought.

He blinks his eyes open when Pete takes his hand away from his cheek. “Okay, ‘Trick,” the older man says solemnly, “you’re getting checked out by a doctor before we play any more shows. We’ll cancel tomorrow’s—”

“No!” Patrick sits up on the couch and shakes his head earnestly. “No, c’mon, hundreds of kids are gonna be there—”

“And they’ll be pissed if the singer of their favorite band can only hit four notes,” Andy interjects, stern but not harsh. “Show’s cancelled. I’ll call Crush and let them know.” He pulls out his phone and walks out into the hallway, dialing.

“I…” Patrick sighs and leans forwards, dropping his head into his hands. He knows he’s defeated, but he won’t go down without at least a feeble fight. After a few seconds, he looks up at Pete and Joe with wide, questioning eyes. “I just don’t wanna disappoint them,” he rasps, voice cracking. “They waited _three years_ for us to come back…”

“…then they can wait another week for a show,” Pete finishes with a reassuring smile. “It’s not like we’re blowing them off to party or something. You’re sick.” Patrick flinches at the word, still reluctant to fully accept that there might be a real problem. “They’ll understand.”

“They want you in good shape just as much as we do, Rick,” Joe adds, nodding in agreement. “It’ll be fine.”

Patrick’s eyes flick back and forth between his two bandmates’ faces for a moment before he sighs again and nods his assent. His hands are fidgeting in his lap, and he drops his gaze to stare at them blankly, still trying not to feel guilty. _This is exactly what you_ didn’t _want to happen,_ his traitorous mind spits, and he closes his eyes. _Cancelling a gig this soon after hiatus because your fucking throat hurts. What kind of selfish—_

The reptilian voice is suddenly silenced as Patrick feels a pair of strong, warm arms wrap around him. Pete’s scent washes over Patrick in a calming wave and the singer relaxes somewhat, turning and sinking into the familiar embrace. He tucks his nose into Pete’s neck and clings a little desperately. Pete’s grip only tightens.

“You’re the priority here, ‘Trick,” Pete says softly, rubbing slow circles into Patrick’s back. “Every band has to cancel stuff because someone gets sick. This is normal.”

“Yeah, for other bands, but not for us,” Patrick mutters, bunching his hands in Pete’s shirt. “We’ve all played sick before. You played for six weeks with your foot in a cast one time, remember? So I’ve got a sore throat, so what? I can still sing.”

“You can barely _talk,”_ Pete corrects him. “I’ve heard you with a sore throat before, man, but I’ve never heard you sound like this. You need more than just tea to knock this out, I think.”

Patrick bites his lip and exhales through his nose. He knows Pete’s right, he just…doesn’t want to think about what “more than just tea” might be. Antibiotics wouldn’t be so bad, but if he needs more than two weeks of vocal rest, he might just panic. Sure, a few weeks isn’t very long in the grand scheme of things, but the band _just_ came back and the fans are expecting so much from them that laying low for that long might incite rumors of another hiatus. Or even something worse. The last thing Patrick wants is for something like that to happen, and he especially doesn’t want to be the cause of it.

He pulls out of Pete’s hug after a good minute or so, and Joe is immediately at his side with the box of cherry throat lozenges Patrick had stashed in his backpack. The singer smiles gratefully at him and takes the box, removing one from its casing and popping it into his mouth. It cools and even numbs his burning throat a bit, and even though the cherry flavor is a little sweet for Patrick’s taste, he still sighs softly in relief.

Andy walks back in at that moment, tucking his phone in the pocket of his gym shorts. “Management’s okay with the cancellation,” he says. “I told them Patrick might be sick, and they said to keep them updated. They’ll cancel more if need be, no big deal.” He walks over and sits down on the coffee table in front of Patrick, patting the younger man’s knee. “It’s gonna be fine.”

Patrick sighs and runs his fingers through his hair nervously. “I hope so,” he says around the lozenge. “I just…what if it’s bad?”

“You’ve had bronchitis and laryngitis before, dude. All you need is some penicillin and you’ll be better in, like, a week.” Joe nudges Patrick with his elbow, smiling. “Antibiotics, fluids, and rest. The magic mixture.”

“Right, but before we confine him to his bunk for ten days, we should actually get him checked out,” Pete says. He stands up from the couch and offers his hand to assist Patrick, who takes it and tries not to blush (why the fuck does he want to blush?). “I saw a clinic a few miles back in Madison. You two head back to the hotel with the roadies; I’ll take him in a cab and we’ll meet back up with you in a couple hours.”

Joe nods and claps Andy on the shoulder as they stand up themselves. “’Kay. Text us when you get some info, yeah?”

Pete and Patrick nod in unison, and all four of them grab their bags as they leave the greenroom. “I’m sure it won’t be anything huge,” Patrick rasps before they split up in the hallway, but the sound of his own voice in his ears plants a seed of doubt in his mind.

 

* * *

 

The doctor at the clinic uses a lot of big, complicated medical terms that Patrick knows he’s heard before at some point, but they’ve never been directed at him. He wrings his hands in his lap and stares at her, unblinking, as she explains his situation, and he nods silently in response to every question she asks. By the end of his hour-long examination, his ailment is identified, along with its cure.

And it scares the living shit out of him.

When he’s told he can leave, Patrick thanks the doctor and the nurse with a forced smile and a monotone “Thank you.” He takes the papers and pamphlets he’s given with a clammy hand and clutches them to his chest as he walks out of the room.

Pete’s sitting casually in a plastic chair in the waiting room, flipping through last month’s issue of _Rolling Stone_. Patrick’s knees start to wobble and he knows his face must be as white as the walls surrounding them as he approaches his best friend on shaking legs. He clears his throat painfully, and Pete immediately looks up with an expectant smile. It falls once he takes in Patrick’s stricken expression—he drops the magazine on the table beside his chair and stands up, rushing over to Patrick and taking him gently by the shoulders.

The question is clear in his eyes: _It’s bad, isn’t it?_

Patrick licks his lips and stifles a cough as he whispers, “It’s my tonsils.”

A quick flash of relief crosses Pete’s face at this news. _The melodramatic shit probably thought it was cancer or something,_ Patrick thinks, mildly amused. “Okay, so, did they give you a ‘scrip for something?” the bassist asks, brow furrowed. “You look like they told you you’re dying.”

 _Might as well be._ Patrick shakes his head and blinks hard. Fuck, his eyes are starting to sting. “They gotta take them out,” he says after a pause, and now his voice is wavering as well as hoarse. “I-I thought I got them out when I was a kid, th-thought I remembered, but—fuck, Pete, I need fucking _surgery._ On my _throat.”_

It takes a few moments for Pete to fully grasp the gravity of this information, but when he does, his eyes go wide with shock and something like fear. He blinks once, twice, then looks around the near-vacant but very public waiting room they’re still standing in. There’s a unisex family bathroom down a short hallway to their right; Pete wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and walks him over to it urgently.

Once they’re securely locked inside the small, colorless room, Patrick pretty much loses it.

“They’re gonna cut up my throat, Pete,” he whispers, horrified. The papers in his hands fall to the tiled floor as he wraps his arms around his shaking body. “Th-They’re gonna go in with knives and lasers a-and rip shit out and scar me up and nothing’s gonna be the same. Th-They’re gonna change me, take away my voice, m-my _voice,_ they’re gonna change my _fucking_ _voice_ …” Shit, shit, he’s hyperventilating, his throat is closing up, he can’t _breathe_ —

“Hey, hey.” Pete draws Patrick to him and envelops him in a tight, stabilizing hug. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and lets a few tears run down his face as he trembles and wheezes against Pete’s shoulder, grabbing Pete’s shirt in a white-knuckled grip. The bassist holds him close and moves a hand up to tangle in Patrick’s hair, stroking it soothingly. He starts rocking them back and forth and Patrick holds on tight, gasping, trying his best to calm down. But that’s hard to do when he’s just been told he might never sing again.

“They’re not gonna take your voice away,” Pete murmurs after a couple minutes. Patrick just chokes out a dry sob in response. “They’re _not_. I promise, ‘Trick. They’re gonna go in and fix what’s wrong so you _don’t_ lose your voice.”

Patrick shakes his head, coughing against Pete’s shoulder. “N-No, no, they—Pete, they said the s-scar tissue m-might alter my range,” he wheezes. “I-I’m not gonna sound the same, might not even be able to sing at all anym-more.”

“No,” Pete says firmly. “That is _not_ going to happen. It’s not possible.”

“According to the medical p-professionals it’s pretty fucking possible.”

“Nothing can kill your voice, Patrick.” Pete pulls away from the hug but keeps his arms snug around his sick best friend as he fixes him with a solemn stare. Patrick looks up at him helplessly with puffy red eyes and a runny nose. “Do you hear me? _Nothing._ I don’t care if a bear came up to you and ripped out your fucking lungs. You have an untouchable, unbreakable voice, the best voice in the history of the universe, and something as wimpy as a scalpel isn’t gonna take it away from you. I won’t fucking let it.”

Patrick sniffles and stares into Pete’s determined eyes for several long moments, willing himself to believe those words. He knows Pete believes them, can hear and see that clearly, but…

“W-What if it does, though?” the singer asks in a barely audible whisper. “What if I can’t sing after? We just came back and we’re doing so well, we’re better than ever. I-I don’t wanna ruin that for you, for the fans, I—I don’t wanna let them d-down.”

“You’re not going to,” Pete says emphatically, “because you’re not gonna lose your voice from this.” He gazes deep into Patrick’s tear-filled eyes for a second or two, then leans forward to rest his forehead against Patrick’s. The shorter man is sure his heartbeat is loud enough to echo through this tiny bathroom. “Plenty of singers have had surgeries like this and come out fine. The same thing is gonna happen to you, I know it. And your family, me, Joe, Andy, and every single Fall Out Boy fan is gonna be right there with you the whole time. Even if something wacky happens and you turn into a baritone like Elton John did, or you lose a few notes on either end of your range, we’ll accommodate for that. Everything’s gonna be alright. I _swear.”_

He says it with such conviction that Patrick can’t help but believe him. He closes his eyes and sighs shakily, then stretches up on his tiptoes to quickly nuzzle Pete’s nose with his own (if Pete asks, he’ll blame it on his 100.3 degree fever). “Okay,” he murmurs. “I-I believe you.”

Pete pulls back an inch to brush a gentle kiss over Patrick’s slightly sweaty forehead. “Good.”

“But I’m still scared,” Patrick adds quietly. He turns his head to bury his face in Pete’s neck again, still ashamed by his weakness. “The only thing I’m good at is making music, Pete. W-Without my voice…I won’t have anything left. I’ll be done. I-I’ll be a twenty-nine-year-old talentless has-been.”

 “Shut the fuck up right now.” Pete holds Patrick fiercely and presses an insistent kiss to the shorter man’s temple. “Your voice isn’t the only thing that gives you value, do you understand me? There’s so much more to you than just the noises that come out of your mouth. You could be a fucking mute and people would still love you.” He pauses meaningfully and Patrick feels his eyes welling up again.  “And even—even if something does go wrong, which I _know_ it won’t, you’ll still be able to play instruments and mix songs and produce albums. There’s plenty of other ways to make music besides singing, and you’re amazing at just about all of them. Also, you’re good at loads of other things—acting, writing, cooking. Music’s the biggest part of your life and trust me, I understand that completely, but it isn’t the only part, okay?”

Patrick sobs once and Pete leans back to meet his eyes. His hand comes up to gently cast the singer’s tears aside as he offers a sincere little smile. “You’re not gonna lose everything, no matter what,” he murmurs. “Your friends are still gonna be your friends if you can’t sing anymore. And even if they decide to be fucking assholes and leave, I never will. You could lose everything you have, from your voice to the clothes on your back, and I’ll still be right here.”

And. Well. There’s only one way Patrick can think to respond to a vow like that.

He hasn’t kissed anyone since his nasty split with Elisa about six months ago, but muscle memory is a wonderful thing. He grabs Pete by the back of the neck and hauls him in and when their mouths connect, it’s like being dunked in velvet lightning. Patrick feels Pete stiffen against him for a split second, but soon he melts against Patrick like they’ve been doing this for years. Dammit, they could’ve been doing this for _years._

But Patrick doesn’t let himself think about that—the wasted time, the beaten-down feelings, the dreams he’d guiltily enjoyed before he’d forced himself to forget them. He just licks into Pete’s mouth urgently, infected tonsils be damned, and shivers as Pete responds in kind. The older man tastes like shitty coffee and spearmint and Patrick knows the bacteria growing in the back of his throat must not be doing his own breath any favors, but Pete doesn’t seem to mind in the least. He marches Patrick backwards a few paces until he’s pinned against the bathroom wall and kisses him stupid, hands running restlessly up and down Patrick’s sides and rucking up his shirt in the process. Patrick just whimpers and tangles his hands in Pete’s thick, dark hair, letting Pete do what he wants because it just feels too fucking good to resist. Pete’s lips are full and soft and even better than Patrick’s always imagined they would be, and the feeling of that firm, sculpted chest pressed flush against his own through two thin layers of fabric is something Patrick wants to memorize and cherish forever.

This goes on until Patrick is sure his lungs are going to burst. He drinks up one last fervent kiss before pulling away, panting and coughing off to the side. His throat fucking _burns,_ but it’s so worth it. Pete nuzzles into his neck and holds him close, breathing hard himself. “Holy shit,” the bassist gasps, laughing deliriously. “I…Patrick, how long…?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Patrick rasps, digging his fingertips into Pete’s back. He buries his nose in Pete’s slightly greasy hair and tries to catch his breath. “I gotta say, though…all the times I pictured this happening, I never imagined it would be in a clinic bathroom in Madison, Wisconsin.”

Pete pulls back and fixes Patrick with a confused, yet hopeful look. “You thought about this?” he asks quietly, awestruck.

It feels like six tons of weight are lifted off Patrick’s shoulders as he sighs and nods, rubbing Pete’s back comfortingly. “I-I think I always have,” he whispers, and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. This is his most closely-guarded secret, the one thing he’s kept completely to himself for more than ten years, and he’s just confessed it to _Pete,_ of all people. He’d thought a three-year break from the band would dull the feelings he’s been trying to fight since he was seventeen, but if anything they were intensified. Now Pete _knows,_ and even though that kiss was the most amazing thing Patrick’s ever felt in his life, he’s still more than a little terrified.

Pete seems to sense this, and Patrick’s not surprised—they’ve always been able to read each other’s minds to some extent. The bassist leans in and kisses Patrick softly, delicately, like Patrick’s made of glass and too much pressure will shatter him. Patrick closes his still-swollen eyes and kisses back, every one of his senses flooded with nothing but _PetePetePete._ If this is a dream, he hopes he never wakes up.

When Pete breaks the kiss about ten seconds later, he knocks their foreheads together and whispers solemnly, “I always have, too. Thought about this, I mean. Never wanted anyone but you.”

Patrick bites his lip, hesitant to believe that. “But Ashlee,” he says, dropping his gaze and blushing. God, they’re still in a fucking _public bathroom_ and this conversation should _not_ be happening here, but Patrick can’t help it. “And Jeanae and Mikey and Meagan. They were so much…so much _more_ than me.”

“’Trick, none of them were ever you,” Pete says, bumping their noses together. “They were good, yeah. I even loved them for awhile—or at least, I thought I did. But none of them ever compared to you. You—fuck, Patrick, you’re _everything._ Always have been, from the first moment I fucking saw you. I’ve never loved—”

His voice breaks, and Patrick watches in awe as those beautiful whiskey-colored eyes gloss over with tears. When he can speak again, Pete stares at Patrick earnestly and continues: “I-I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. I don’t care if you never sing again—you’ll always be golden to me.”

The wind is utterly knocked out of Patrick’s lungs, and for the first time in four days the pain in his throat is pushed to the very back of his mind. They’re in a public bathroom at a doctor’s office in Wisconsin and Pete Wentz has just admitted to being in love with him for the past decade—it’s almost too much for Patrick’s fever-addled mind to comprehend. All he can do is cup Pete’s face in his shaking, clammy hands and murmur, “I love you too.” Maybe it’s too much too soon, but he’s been wanting to say it for twelve goddamn years, so fuck it.

Pete laughs breathlessly, blinks his tears away, and nods. “I know,” he says, beaming, before he leans in and kisses Patrick again, presumably to keep Patrick from asking him if that was a sincere sentiment or a corny-as-fuck _Star Wars_ reference.

Patrick’s tonsils are still infected. He still needs surgery within the next three days, and he’s still completely terrified of it. But right now, with Pete in his arms kissing the breath out of him, he feels like he could take on the world.

 

* * *

 

Andy and Joe transform into concerned parents when Patrick tells them his diagnosis. He calls his local hospital—which happens to be a five-minute drive from his old high school in Glenview—to set up an appointment for surgery, and he gets one in two days at nine a.m. This gives his bandmates plenty of time to baby him, which both drives him crazy and makes his heart swell with gratitude. Every five minutes one of them asks if he needs anything, and even if he says no, they usually turn up with a hastily-made milkshake or a bottle of water anyway. As long as he doesn’t have to move from his bed, Patrick doesn’t complain.

He also doesn’t complain when Pete slips into his bed that night instead of sleeping in his own across the room. Patrick falls asleep with Pete’s arms warm and secure around him and Pete’s hand in his hair, and the singer can’t help but imagine what it’ll be like to have this every night. It almost makes him forget his life might change forever on Thursday morning.

Well. His life’s _already_ changed forever, albeit unexpectedly. He and Pete have finally talked through whatever the fuck’s been going on between them for, like, the entirety of their friendship, and Patrick couldn’t be happier. They haven’t told anyone yet, though—it’s so new and still a little unfamiliar; they’ve gotta get used to it themselves before they spread it around like gossip. But Patrick kind of likes it, likes the fact that no one knows. For the first time in a long, long time, the two of them have something that’s _just_ _theirs,_ and it feels really nice.

Andy and Joe might argue that Pete and Patrick’s relationship has always been “just theirs,” untouchable to anyone else, and they would be right. But now it’s…different. A really, really good different.

They agree that sex will have to wait until Patrick’s fully healthy again. As ridiculous and blush-filled as that conversation is, it makes Patrick even more determined to get through this ordeal in one piece.

The night before the surgery, the band loads up their buses and sets out for Chicago. Around ten p.m., the curtain of Patrick’s bunk is pulled aside and Pete slips in beside him, pressing up against his side. Patrick curls into him and hides his face in the bassist’s warm chest, soaking in the comfort his best friend is offering with a soft, grateful sigh. They’ve shared a bunk numerous times in the past, but this is the first time they have since 2008. And like everything else about them, it’s different now. Yet somehow, it’s exactly the same.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Pete whispers in his ear once they’re both half-asleep and tangled up together under the thin blankets. He holds Patrick tight and repeats the mantra over and over so it’s the last thing Patrick hears before he finally dozes off.

The singer clings to those words with everything he has as the bus drives on through the dark.

 

* * *

 

It’s 8:54 a.m. and Patrick is dressed in nothing more than a light blue, paper-thin hospital gown. There’s a heart monitor clamped onto his right index finger and an IV drip in the back of his left hand, feeding him a clear fluid he’s forgotten the name of. Pete’s grip on that hand is gentle, even though Patrick really wants to squeeze the life out of Pete’s fingers right now to ease some of his anxiety. His mother, Joe, and Andy have taken their turns in the room with him already; Patrick had put on a strong face for them, but in front of Pete, his confident façade is eroding.

Pete leans over the edge of the bed Patrick is propped up in and stares into his eyes reassuringly. “It’s gonna be alright,” he says for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, stroking Patrick’s pale fingers with his thumb. “You’re gonna come out of this just fine. And hey, when you’re done you get to eat as much ice cream as you want, apparently, so. Keep that in mind, too.”

Patrick chuckles, grateful for the light-hearted conversation, but he’s still nervous as hell. The doctor he’d spoken to a couple hours ago told him the hospital has called in specially-trained ENTs to perform his surgery—they apparently have tools and techniques that will “minimize palate scarring and tissue damage.” They’ve performed tonsillectomies and other throat surgeries on a number of singers before, although it’s safe to say Patrick will be their most high-profile client to date. Patrick isn’t sure how to feel about that information.

He opens his mouth to reply to Pete, but as if on cue the door of his room opens and two doctors walk in, dressed in white and wheeling a gurney in front of them. “They’re ready for you in OR two, Mr. Stump,” one of them says. Patrick swallows as best he can and nods in understanding before turning to look at Pete one more time, borderline frantic. His heart rate increases on the monitor beside his bed.

Pete ignores the IV needle and squeezes Patrick’s hand tight. “Let’s do this,” he declares.

Patrick climbs onto the gurney with the help of Pete and the doctors. Once he’s situated on it with his head resting on a flat pillow and a thin sheet covering his legs, they wheel him, his IV, and the heart monitor screen out of the room and down the hall towards the operating room. Pete holds Patrick’s hand the whole way.

“I love you,” Patrick rasps as they approach the imposing double doors. He looks up at Pete beseechingly, desperate for one last inkling of comfort before he puts his career in the hands of a group of masked strangers.

Pete reluctantly lets go of his hand to run his fingers through Patrick’s soft, mussed hair. “I love you more,” he whispers fiercely, bending down for a quick but firm kiss. “It’s gonna be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Hope so,” Patrick says, and the next thing he knows, Pete is gone and he’s being blinded by the brightest fluorescent lights he’s ever seen.

Several hands grab him and suddenly Patrick’s being lifted from the gurney onto a table. One surgeon hooks him up to a second IV while another injects a syringe-full of something into his first one with practiced ease. A few extra heart monitor pads are attached to his chest under the hospital gown and the surgeon’s hands are so cold when they brush over Patrick’s skin, making him shiver. It all seems very mechanical and thoughtless; Patrick tries not to panic.

“Okay, Patrick,” the one female surgeon says soothingly as she pulls him up a bit to stuff a roll of fabric under his shoulders, “I want you to count down from fifty for me. Keep going as long as you can.”

Patrick nods and lies back down on the table. Now that his shoulders are elevated, his head is tilted back uncomfortably and his throat is exposed; the singer doesn’t think he’s ever felt more vulnerable in his life than he does in this moment. He can’t do anything about it now, though, so he swallows hard and begins to count. “Fifty…forty-nine…forty-eight…”

He’s fast asleep before he reaches thirty.

 

* * *

 

The recovery regimen is fairly straightforward: limited speaking for ten days, absolutely no singing for at least twenty, avoid dry and salty foods, drink plenty of water, and take the pain meds until they’re gone. During those first ten days, Patrick sees a vocal therapist at the hospital who specializes in rehabilitating singing voices. He learns a couple simple vocal exercises and is given a kazoo to play for a few minutes each day to strengthen his soft palate and prevent his voice from getting nasal. At first he thinks it’s a little ridiculous, but after a couple uses, he can feel the muscles in his throat responding to the strange stimulation.

It’s straightforward, but it isn’t easy. Patrick’s throat hurts like hell for the first week while the scabs form where his tonsils used to be. Three days after the surgery, he coughs up a little blood into his bathroom sink after brushing his teeth. It takes an hour of Google searches and a panicked twenty-minute phone call with Pete to calm him down.

After that, Pete decides to move into one of Patrick’s spare rooms. “Just to be nearby in case you need something,” he reasons, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he stands on Patrick’s doorstep with a suitcase at his feet.

He doesn’t sleep in the guest bed once. Patrick sees to that.

With Pete’s encouragement and the well-wishes of his friends, family, and fans (through Twitter, mostly, but also through a few very kind hand-written cards), Patrick somehow makes it twenty-three days without singing a single note. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and he couldn’t be more relieved when his regular physician finally tells him it’s safe to try a song or two. Patrick nearly bursts out into song right there in the doctor’s office, but he manages to drive home without breaking too many traffic laws.

Andy and Joe, who’ve been staying in their Chicago homes during Patrick’s recovery, drive out to their bandmate’s house when he calls them and excitedly tells them the news. Pete just hugs him and kisses his temple tenderly, murmuring, “I’m sure it’ll be okay.” Patrick hugs him back tightly and prays he’s right.

An hour after Patrick’s appointment, all four members of Fall Out Boy are gathered in the singer’s living room around the glossy black piano beside the couch. Patrick sits down on the bench and plinks at the keys a bit—he’s fiddled with GarageBand and this piano every day since his surgery simply because going a full day without doing _something_ musical would have driven him utterly insane. It hadn’t been quite the same as singing, but it’d filled that void reasonably well.

Patrick realizes his hands are shaking and he takes a deep breath, reaching for the bottle of water beside him on the bench. He takes a long swig, then sets it down and looks up at his bandmates anxiously. “W-Well, uh.” He swallows hard, relieved when it doesn’t ache even a little. “Here goes, I guess.”

“You got this, ‘Trick,” Pete says with a confident nod, and the others echo him.

Patrick smiles at them gratefully. “We’ll see.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns back to the piano. His fingers alight on the gleaming keys and he starts playing the first song that comes to mind; the familiar melody floods the room and he closes his eyes, basking in it for a few seconds.

Then he clears his throat, parts his lips, and starts to sing.

_“I need more dreams, and less life_

_I need that dark, in a little more light_

_I’ve cried tears you’ll never see_

_So fuck you, you can go cry me an ocean, and leave me be_

_You are what you love, not who loves you_

_In a world full of the word yes, I’m here to scream…”_

It’s there. It’s tremulous and a little quiet but it’s _there._ Patrick’s voice, bright and clear and beautiful as it’s ever been, is filling the room along with the sound of the piano like it always has. Hell, it might even sound _better_ than before. Overwhelmed, Patrick stops playing and covers his mouth with one hand, blinking away relieved tears.

Suddenly Pete’s on the bench next to him, pressed up against his side. When Patrick turns to him, he sees tears in the bassist’s eyes, as well. “Don’t you dare stop now,” he whispers urgently.

“Yeah, keep going, please,” Joe agrees, and Andy nods. “You sound…fuck, Rick, you sound amazing.”

Patrick laughs and sniffs, then turns back to the piano and picks up where he left off.

_“No, no_

_Wherever I go, go_

_Trouble seems to follow_

_I only plugged in to save rock and roll, rock and roll_

_No, wherever I go, go_

_Trouble seems to follow_

_I only plugged in to save rock and roll…”_

At some point during the second verse, Patrick sees Pete pull out his phone and start recording a video, no doubt for their fans who’ve been worried about them for the last month or so. Patrick doesn’t let it faze him like it usually would, though, and he keeps singing, voice cracking a couple times from disuse but otherwise pretty much perfect.

When he gets to the bridge, his bandmates join in, and he finally lets the tears leak out of his eyes. Pete’s face is buried in Patrick’s shoulder like they’re back in 2007 and everyone is smiling as wide as they can and it’s one of the best moments of Patrick’s entire life, hands-down.

The last chorus he plays standing up, and he gives it his all, singing like he’s in front of an audience of thousands, putting his heart and soul into every word. He sings the last four lines acapella with his eyes closed and his fists clenched at his sides, defiant.

_“No, wherever I go, go_

_Trouble seems to follow_

_I only plugged in to save rock and roll_

_Oh, no, we won’t go_

_‘Cuz we don’t know when to quit, oh, oh_

_Oh, no, we won’t go_

_‘Cuz we don’t know when to quit, oh, oh.”_

He holds out the last note for several seconds, then collapses back down onto the bench as it dies out. He’s winded and yeah, his throat’s a little sore, but _he can still sing._ Nothing can take his voice away from him, he’s sure of it now.

Andy, Joe, and Pete are clapping and cheering with huge, dopey grins on their faces. A wide smile splits Patrick’s face and he starts to laugh through his tears, giddy with relief. He opens his eyes, looking around the room at his three best friends in the world with nothing but affection and joy in his heart. It doesn’t get better than this.

Well, maybe it does. As soon as their gazes lock, a speechless Pete flings his arms around Patrick’s neck and pulls him in for a deep kiss. Their tears mix as their faces brush together, but Patrick can’t bring himself to care right now. He doesn’t even care that their secret has just been revealed to Andy and Joe, who don’t seem to mind all that much. In fact, they’re now cat-calling and whistling instead of cheering. The moment is too perfect to interfere with, so Patrick lets it slide and just holds Pete close, kissing him back with gusto.

“Missed your voice,” Pete gasps between their mouths as they briefly break for air. “Missed it so much, ‘Trick, oh god, so glad it’s back—”

“I missed it, too,” Patrick replies breathlessly, sliding one hand up to grip the back of Pete’s neck. “Gonna sing to you every night from now on, never gonna stop.”

“Good,” Pete whispers as he nips at Patrick’s bottom lip. “Love you, ‘Tricky, love you so much.”

They kiss for another minute or so before they realize the cat-calls have ceased. Slowly, they turn towards their bandmates, who are standing above them with knowing, smug smiles plastered across their faces.

“It’s about fucking time,” Andy says simply.

“Yeah, congrats, you two,” Joe chuckles, his eyes fond. “Wondered why Pete was staying over here.”

Patrick blushes and bites his lip to hold back his smile. “U-Uh. He just wanted to be close-by,” he stammers. “We’ve been, um, ‘together’ for like a month, but we didn’t—I-I mean, we haven’t—”

“Hey!” Pete elbows Patrick’s side in reproach, but he’s laughing.

“You _haven’t?”_ Patrick thinks Joe’s eyes are about to bug out of his skull. “Dudes, come _on.”_

“I was sick!” Patrick squeals.

“Whatever.” Joe exchanges an exasperated glance with Andy, then jabs his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the front door. “Hurley and I are gonna get out of here so you guys can fully consummate. Glad your voice is okay, Patrick. Mazel tov.”

Patrick blinks a couple times incredulously. By the time his brief episode of shock is over, he and Pete are alone in the living room, and Patrick already knows exactly what’s about to happen before it does. He feels Pete grab his shoulders before pulling him to his feet and spinning him around. There’s an almost dangerous fire smoldering in the older man’s dark eyes, and it sends a shockwave of heat shooting down Patrick’s spine. Yeah, he’s definitely okay with this development.

“I think we need to gather some more evidence,” Pete says, low, with a wicked smirk. “To make sure your voice is back to normal, that is. Don’t you?”

Patrick doesn’t let himself overthink this because dammit, he’s waited for this for twelve years. He pulls Pete in, rumbles, “I agree,” and captures that sinful mouth in a bitey, desperate kiss. Pete moans against his lips and kisses him back for a few seconds before shoving him backwards onto the couch behind them.

By the time they’re finished “consummating”, they’ve concretely established that the high end of Patrick’s vocal range is perfectly intact.

###


End file.
